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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28378164">there's a cold breeze blowing</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForTheLoveOf1776/pseuds/ForTheLoveOf1776'>ForTheLoveOf1776</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirteen_friidays_and_an_anxious_cat/pseuds/thirteen_friidays_and_an_anxious_cat'>thirteen_friidays_and_an_anxious_cat</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Brainchildren of Ace and Friday [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Before Strike, Canon-Era, Co-Written, Communication, Established Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicidal Thoughts, Lack of Communication, M/M, Minor David Jacobs/Jack Kelly, One Shot, Past Sexual Abuse, Pre-Canon, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins-centric, Suicidal Thoughts, apart from us, but not cold enough to die, jack kelly is the number one sprace shipper, not in that way, platonic ralbert, prompts, race is really eager to get naked, soft, supportive friends, we're assuming the east river is cold</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 00:29:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,317</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28378164</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForTheLoveOf1776/pseuds/ForTheLoveOf1776, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirteen_friidays_and_an_anxious_cat/pseuds/thirteen_friidays_and_an_anxious_cat</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Well, this is awkward."<br/>"Yeah, sharin’ a blanket with me nemesis ain’t exactly great for me pride."<br/>"No, I’s mean, we, uh, should prob’ly get naked. These ‘ere wet clothes are gonna kill us faster than the embarrassment will."<br/>"A’right. Well then."</p><p>Spot and Race fall into the East River and are hard-pressed to warm up together.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Albert DaSilva &amp; Racetrack Higgins, David Jacobs/Jack Kelly, Racetrack Higgins &amp; Jack Kelly, Spot Conlon &amp; Jack Kelly, Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Brainchildren of Ace and Friday [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2078565</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>there's a cold breeze blowing</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>so, uh, we wrote a fic together</p><p>***chaos***</p><p>friday did pretty much all the writing, ace kinda just edited, added, did research, fact-checked, also wrote the tags/notes/summary and extra required information</p><p>set in 1898</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Well, this is awkward."</p><p>"Yeah, sharin’ a blanket with mah nemesis ain’t exactly great for mah pride."</p><p>"No, I’s mean, we, uh, should prob’ly get naked. These ‘ere wet clothes are gonna kill us faster than the embarrassment will."</p><p>"A’right. Well then."</p><p>The two look at each other in the darkness, then Race grinned. “So how ‘bout ‘chu get tah strippin’, and we’s go from there?”</p><p>“How’s about you get tah strippin’ too, Racer, ‘n then we’s’ll see what ‘appens, yeah?” Spot said, smirk dialed up to eleven.</p><p>Racetrack blushed, but didn’t look away as he pulled the suspenders off his shoulders and his soaked shirts up and off his shivering body. “You'd betta’ get started on that there strippin’, Spotty.”</p><p>Not to be outdone in a contest of his own creation, Spot pulled his own undershirt off, and got started on his pants. The look of it was slightly ruined when he had to steady himself on Race after tripping over his own pant leg, but neither of the two cared.</p><p>“You’d’a prob’ly siddown, if you ain’t gonna be able tah stay on ya feet at the sight o’ ma bea-u-tiful body, Spotty,” Race grinned down at him. </p><p>Spot immediately resented the extra inches Racer had on him, if only because it meant he had to tilt his head up to see him. “‘S not you tha’s makin’ me fall ova’, ya punk.” (“Am-scray, punk!”)</p><p>“Sure, sure,” Race said as he let go of Spot, pulling his own pants off. Looking down at his boxers he asked, “You wanna strip fully, or is we’s gonna be fine and dandy like this? ‘Cause I don’ really mind it, but if youse wants to keep your pretty little eyes clean—”</p><p>“We should be a’right like this, Racer,” Spot glared, throwing his pants off to the side. Then he gestured towards the bed, which was looking warmer by the minute. “So’s we gettin’ in there, or is we freezing tah death out here?”</p><p>Race grinned at him, before diving towards the bed. “I’s got dibs on tha’ right!” he said, already burrowing under the covers. “An’ it sure is warm under here.”</p><p>“A’right, ‘raight, I’m comin’,” Spot grumbled, sliding into the bed beside Race. “But ‘chu betta not try any funny business, or I swear, Racer, Imma—”</p><p>“Nah, Spots, I ain’t gonna try tha’ wit’chu. ‘Less ya wannit, o’course—”</p><p>“—Nah, not today,” Spot said, already stretching his body in a yawn. “We’s too tired to do anythin’ good.”</p><p>Racetrack started. Then looked away, because <em> damn </em>, Spot’s arms were nice (what he lacked in height he made up for in muscle), and he really didn’t want to think about that when they were in the same bed. “So’s youse up for it some other time, then?” he asked, all casual-like.</p><p>“Sure, Racer, sure. Just wait until we ain’t freezin’ to death, a’right? Then we can take it nice an’ slow,” he said, totally not flirting.</p><p>“Aight then,” Race said, letting out a yawn of his own. “‘Night, Spot.”</p><p>“G’night, Racer,” Spot mumbled. “See ya in the morning’.”</p><p>Then he was snoring, and Race was left alone with his thoughts.</p><hr/><p>It hadn’t been his fault, of course, that they’d fallen into the East River. Nah, that had been Spot’s. They’d been arguing about something-or-the-other to do with the other Manhattan newsies following Race into Brooklyn to sell, and it had gotten a little too heated. An overly-enthusiastic shove from Spot had sent them both off the edge of the pier. Normally, that wouldn’t have been a problem.</p><p>Normally, it wasn’t the middle of a New York winter.</p><p>Once they’d dragged themselves out of the river, with Jack and Hot Shot’s help, they had looked like drowned rats.</p><p>Jack had told them, in his serious, I’m-your-mother-listen-to-me-or-I’ll-beat-ya tone, that they’d better get the hell to Duane Street afore they froze to death.</p><p>“Don’ worry ‘bout ya newsies, Spot,” Jack’d said, always thinking ahead. “Hot Shot’ll tell them that ya just stayin’ warm, won’cha, Hot Shot?”</p><p>With a look from Spot, Hot Shot'd nodded, before heading off into the darkening streets of Brooklyn. </p><p>“A’right, boys, we’s best be gettin back then, ay?” Jack turned Race and Spot, who were violently shivering. He ran a hand through his hair and let out a long-suffering sigh. “C’mon, then.”</p><p>(The “dumbasses” went unspoken.)</p><p>They had made it back without dying, and in Jack’s book, when he was dealing with those two, that was more then he could’ve asked for. “Aight, you two, go on and get warmed up. I’s got Kloppman tah give youse a private room.”</p><p>Neither of them had questioned his motives in putting them in a room together. </p><p>(Jack was just hoping that maybe, just maybe, they’d finally get rid of all that tension they had between them, because c’mon, guys, it’s really obvious.)</p><hr/><p>It turned out, Racer was clingy.</p><p>Spot only knew this because, when he woke up, it was to the realization that there was something warm clinging to him.</p><p>He didn’t do nothing about it, though, just lay there in a post-sleep haze, allowing himself to revel in the warmth of Racer against him. One of his hands came up to brush through Racer’s hair - which was surprisingly soft, for a newsie.</p><p>“Spot,” Racer mumbled. </p><p>He jolted, surprised that Racer was awake. “Mm, Racer?”</p><p>“Yer hands are nice. Feels… feels good,” he sighs, clearly still half asleep. </p><p>“Why thank you,” Spot drawled sarcastically. “‘S nice tah know ‘m good for sommat.”</p><p>“Wha d’ya mean by that, Spots?” Race asked, shifting himself to sit up against the wall. He pulled Spot up with him, making sure Spot had his hand fixed in his hair. “Continue.”</p><p>Spot tensed slightly, well aware he was leaning against Race’s bare chest. “I’s was just jokin’, Racer.”</p><p>He scoffed. “Like hell yah was. Tell’s me, or I’s gonna start askin’ questions, an’ I doubt youse’ll want me tah be askin’ Hot Shot and yah gang ‘bout that typa stuff.”</p><p>“I’s not… We’s all come from crappy places, Racer. I’s not special.”</p><p>Racetrack sighed and ran a hand under Spot’s chin, gently lifting his head up to meet his eyes. ”Youse is special, Spots. Youse is special tah me, unda’stan’? An’ tha’ means that you ain’t allowed tah be mean to yaself when I’s around ya, okay? Or any time, for wha’ tha’s worth.”</p><p>Spot looked away from Race’s eyes, his heart beating faster than he knew possible. “Ya ain’t… ya ain’t allowed tah say tha’ bout me, Racer. Ya don’ know me well enough tah say those sweet things, ya hear?”</p><p>“C’mon, Spots,” Race said softly. “Ya gotta have sommone ‘llowed tah say nice things ‘bout yah, otherwise ya ain’t gonna think em, are ya? An’ you deserve tah think em, Spots. Ya really do.” </p><p>“Why?” </p><p>Race faltered, before—“A’cos youse is brilliant! Youse is the head a’ the Brookyn newsies! Youse is the reason Brooklyn’s goin’ so well! Youse is always there for yah newsies, always ready tah help those kids that’re new, or crips, or jus’ tah spot em if they’s in need of a little extra. Youse is brilliant, an’ kind, an—”</p><p>“Tha’s jus’ the job, Racer,” Spot sighed, even as he curled closer to Race. “<em> Someone </em> has gotta look out for them kids; Jack does it ‘ere. Doesn’ make me special, or grand, or kind. Jus’ makes me a decent leader.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Race argued. “But how many a’ us <em> are </em> good leada’s? Jack an’ you, youse is <em> special </em> . Youse is able tah do things tha’ not many a’ us could do, an ya do it without askin’, aight? Youse gotta trust me, Spots, youse is absolutely <em> brilliant </em>, ya here me?”</p><p>“I—I jus’—” Spot floundered. People weren’t nice to him, normally—apart from his gang, and even then, it was mostly respect. Maybe Hot Shot, Myron, Bart, and Graves, ‘cause they were his friends—proper friends — but even they never said things like this.</p><p>People had said things like that before to him, but usually it was just to get something nice outta him— like a meal or a night in bed. That was probably what Racer was doing, but he was so <em> genuine </em>, he was just so—</p><p>“A’right, loverboys, we’s got papes tah sell!” Jack yelled, banging on the closed doors. “Youse need ta getta Brooklyn quick, Spot, else ya gonna be late.”</p><p>Spot nearly leapt off Race in his hurry to get ready, leaving him looking confused and sitting up in the bed. “Spots—”</p><p>“I’s gotta run, Racer,” Spots said, shoving his leg into his pants. “See ya later, a’right?”</p><p>When he caught a glimpse of Race’s face, it looked distraught, before switching into a faint smirk. “You’d’a betta, aight, Spots? See ya later.”</p><p>“See ya, Racer,” he said, already opening the door. “Thanks, Jack.”</p><p>“Youse is welcome, Spot,” Jack said. He’d been standing by the door, and once Spot’d raced past him, he stepped inside. “You all good, Race?”</p><p>“‘Couse, why’s would I not be?” Race said. Jack hummed, but didn’t respond.</p><p>“C’mon, Race, we’s need ta go. Papes ain’t gonna sell themselves.”</p><hr/><p>That morning, Race barely managed to sell the normal amount of papes. Hell, he was in so much of a state he’d forgotten to bring his prized Corona cigar with him! Albert had hopped a trolley with him that morning to Sheepshead Bay, and was getting concerned. </p><p>“Ey, Race!” Al yelled at him. “You’s all good over there?"</p><p>“I’s fine, Al!” Race yelled back, just having sold his last pape. “You’s should head back over tah Manhattan, I’s is gonna go for a walk.”</p><p>“You’s sure it’s safe tah be walkin’ Brooklyn alone?” Al asked.</p><p>“I’s gonna be <em> fine </em>, Al, don’ worry. I’s ain’t a kid no more.”</p><p>“You’s barely sixteen, Race!”</p><p>“Same as you, ain’t I! I’s is a full-grown adult, ya fool!”</p><p>“Whateva’ you says, Race,” Al muttered. “You’s jus’ make sure ya get home safe, ya hear?”</p><p>“Aight, aight, I’ll be careful <em> mother </em>,” Race groaned. “See’s ya later.”</p><p>He left Sheepshead, heading off in the direction he knew Spot normally sold at. Spot’d left him worried— he hadn’t said anything when he’d asked, and then he’d just <em> refused </em> to listen to anything nice Race had to say. Then he’d just—he’d just <em> left, </em> hadn’t even said a thing about what had <em> happened </em>.</p><p>It was painful, to say the least. Racetrack wasn’t usually turned down—even when he was, it <em> definitely </em> wasn’t after he’d just lain in bed with them, cuddling up to them and letting them play with his hair, because it just felt so <em> nice </em>—</p><p>Christ, he was gone for this boy. When’d that happened? He could have <em> sworn </em> that he was fine with just the <em> idea </em> of having one night with him—now, he seemed to be yearning for the sweet and soft things.</p><p>Crap. He was turning into Romeo with this hopeless romanticism.</p><p>"Ey, 'Hattan, what're you doin’ over this side a’ Brooklyn?" Bart yelled, jolting Racetrack out of his musings. Him and Bart were walking towards Race, paper bags empty. </p><p>"I was jus’ lookin’ for Spot," Race called back. "Youse know where he’s at"</p><p>"Last I's seen im, he’s was heading back tah Poplar Street," Myron said, coming to a stop in front of Race. "But we’s got questions for ya, 'Hattan. He didn' come back las' night, an now he’s acting real strange. What’cha do tah ‘im?” he asked.</p><p>"Nothing's happened, Myron," Race said. "It mighta been somethin’ I's said, but he left a’fore I's could ask. Tha's why 'm here; I's wants ta talk with ‘im ‘bout it."</p><p>"A’right, 'Hattan, but if we'd hear that youse be hurtin’ ‘im, youse gonna be sorry, ya hear?" Myron threatened.</p><p>"Hear ya loud an’ clear, boys," Race said. "Loud an’ clear."</p><hr/><p>When he reached the Brooklyn Lodging House, he headed straight for the fire escape. Despite Spot’s previous claims that they weren’t close friends, Racetrack knew exactly where he liked to be.</p><p>"Ey, Spot," he called. "You feelin’ a’right?"</p><p>"Racer," Spot said, surprise etched across his face for little more than a second before it was replaced with cool indifference. "What're you doin’ here?"</p><p>"Ah, can’t a friend come an’ say hi?" Race asked, smiling. "Ya thinks so little of me; ‘s kinda sad."</p><p>"Race," Spot snapped. "Drop the act, a’right? I ain't in the mood for ya games."</p><p>"Sorry, sorry. But youse gotta tells me why's youse got so weird back in Manhattan? I's jus wanna know, a’cos youse deserved everythin’ tha’ I’s was sayin."</p><p>"Ey Race, do me a favor and fuckin' leave, a’right?" Spot said, not even deigning to look at him.</p><p>Race recoiled in shock, "Ey, whatsa matta? I’s just askin’ after a friend, is all."</p><p>"We both know <em> friendship </em> ain't what ya want, Racer,” Spot said, emotionless. "If ya ain't gonna ask, leave. I don' like pretty boys playin' with ma feelings." </p><p>In any other situation, Race would've said something. As it was, he filed the whole <em> pretty boy </em> thing away in his mind. Later.</p><p>"Spot, I's dunno whatcha mean," Race said gently, sitting down beside him. "Wha’s goin’ on?"</p><p>"You jus’ wanna fuck me, Race!" Spot yelled, finally meeting his eyes. "An’ I don’ give a shit, if you want it, <em> take it, </em> but if you ain't gonna, then <em> fucking. Leave." </em></p><p>"Spot—"</p><p>"Race, you either gonna fuck me or leave me the hell alone! Why can’t ‘cha understand?!"</p><p>"<em> Spot </em> — <em> " </em></p><p>"Ey, Hattan," a voice said from behind him. "'S prolly best if you leave."</p><p>He turned to see Hot Shot and Graves, looking for all intents and purposes like they wanted to kill him.</p><p>"I—"</p><p>"That weren't us askin, ‘Hattan," Graves said. "Fuckin’ scram, else we'll beat the shit outta you and you can pray tha' Jack'll be able ta pick up the pieces. Ya got that?"</p><p>Race didn't need to be told twice.</p><p>He ran.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>here are some highlights of the chaos that ensued:</p><p>many arguments that occurred over the tiny technicalities while writing this eg:</p><p>does Race wear suspender? (ace thought no; was proven wrong) where suspender worn? under shirts? no friday it's under vest, over shirts. (and the major conflict that followed over whether or not we had to write this in, before resolutely deciding no one would actually care, and ace, it's like a strip-tease if you're writing it like this - but isn't it spot's PoV? - honestly who knows at this point), ace constantly correcting friday with historically/musically-accurate facts and overall annoying 'em, we (friday) not caring about historical accuracy, because goddamn it, they're wearing shit under their pants (bREECHES, SCREAMS FRIDAY) 'cause it's *uncomfy* without it, was that slang term used back then? yes it was. proof. *ace does terrible impression of race* "i'll call ya swee'hear' if ya spot me fifty papes." um, friday, sheepshead bay is a loooong way from the brooklyn bridge — yeah no one cares, ace, ace googled if they had filing cabinets in the 1800s (yes, but not until mid-19th century)</p><p>mumlbled (a typo by the one and only friday) now introducing: felss and also accidentally writing "shiting" instead of "shifting" and how could we forget alreadly? musngs was a wondrous sluaughter (slaughter, wow ace well done) of musings by none other than ace, but this monstrosity: gotquestoons was by friday and also this gem of sasaidsurprside </p><p>anyways this is gonna turn into a multi-chap fic so yeah</p></blockquote></div></div>
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